Two Short MP Fics
by Auto Rock
Summary: Just a couple of MP fics I wrote, based on the Hotel and Resturant sections of the game.
1. Hotel

Hi. These are just a bunch of small fics I wrote a while back, originally posted on PlanetMaxPayne forums. This one's based on the start of the Hotel level. Enjoy 'em.  
  
Max Payne was not having a good day. In fact, he hadn't a good day in a few years. He had had days which were tolerable, but never one which would be called good. Today was definetely not a good day. Days which involved the killing of your best friend, the NYC police force and most of the NYC public baying for your blood, and, in general, the destruction any scraps of a life you had managaged to hold onto rarely were.  
  
I walked straight in, playing it Bogart.  
  
The hotel was not exactly five star. More of a negative star value. The wallpaper was sodden with years of unattended dampness. The furniture was mostly broken and grimy. Light fixtures hung still, insects buzzing round the cheap bulbs. The distant hum of some vibrating bed.  
  
The guests didn't add much to the experience. The drunks were the best. They were to this place what the high-ranking business executives were to The Ritz. Below the drunks were the hookers ('Lookin' for a good time, handsome?'), the junkies ('It's coming... DEATH... IS COMING!!'), and the general mobsters ('WHACK THE SUCKA!!').  
  
Max headed up the stairs of the hotel. He didn't trust the elevators. He passed a window on the landing, and glanced out of it. The snow was piling up even higher, turning the roads of New York City into gleaming, white, half-pipes. Max blinked. Odd metaphor, there.  
  
The hotel was run by a couple of sleazy mobsters named the Finito brothers.  
  
'Ladies an' gen'lemen, it's the pain in the butt,' said one of them. Max sighed.  
  
'Pain to the Max!' another yelled in his thick New Yawk accent. Max grinned with the air of one dealing with something tiresome, but neccesary.  
  
'You make that up yourself, or you get some wino downstairs to make it for you?' Max quipped. Before the mobsters could reply, he continued. 'Don't answer that - a rhetorical question. I got something for the boss. Lupino around?'  
  
One of the Finitos reached inside his jacket. 'That all depends on who's askin'...'  
  
Max saw the other one reach under a desk for something.  
  
'A friend or a junk squad plant?'  
  
Max twitched slightly.  
  
'On no don't answer... it's one o' them, eh how d'ya put it... rhetorical questions.'  
  
The other spoke up. He was more direct than the first.  
  
'Lupino ain't here, but he says 'bye',' he said, as he pulled the shotgun from under the desk. Max frowned, not with fear or hatred, but simply exasperation.  
  
The shotgun was fired, and Max dropped. Or rather, Max dropped, THEN the shotgun was fired. He hid the ground roughly, as a part of a sofa behind him exploded with the shotgun's blast. Before another shot could be fired, he hopped up and half vaulted, half rolled over the couch, landing just as another blast ripped a hole clean through the back of it.  
  
Max quickly rolled behind the alcove where the door was. Thrusting his hand into his thick leather jacket, he drew the first gun he grabbed. It turned out to be a Beretta.  
  
'Ha ha, pain to the max!!' howled the Finito, as he pumped (cough) the shotgun, and the empty casing was ejaculated (ahem). Max lifted the Beretta to fire, just as the Finito rolled round the corner. Max fired twice. Finito fired once.  
  
The Beretta's first bullet flew through a shower of shotgun pellets, and pierced the Finito's shoulder. The shotgun pellets hit only the wall, as Max was already inches away, and that was all he needed. His other bullet hit in the chest, and one half of the Finito brothers was down.  
  
The other was still around the corner of the alcove, covered by the now-overturned desk, ready to fire. Max dived. The Finito fired his Desert Eagle twice. Mid-jump, Max shot off a few rounds. The BLAM BLAM ended with a sharp click, signifying an empty clip. Each bullet missed, but they had served to distract his opponent while Max twisted through the air to avoid the Desert Eagle bullets which had already been fired.  
  
Landing relatively lightly on his back, Max kicked up a small table with his heel for some cover. Another shot from the 'Eagle, and a shower of wood splinters rained over one side of Max's face, the bullet missing his ear by millimetres.  
  
Max kicked the table as it fell towards Finito, who caught it and fell backwards, while Max reached for the fallen Finito's shotgun, lying at his feet. He liften the shotgun, and fired once at the overturned desk. The pellets ripped through the wood. A scream, a thud, and dull clonk. Max stood up, and looked over the desk, to see Finito lying dead on the carpet, damp with his blood, the Desert Eagle lying a few feet away.  
  
A letter on the desk caught my eye.  
  
Max moved over to the other desk, and picked up the letter. It was from Vinnie Gognitti, to the Finitos.  
  
'Rico Muerte's coming to see to the V deal,' it read. The letter detailed Muerte's arrival time, the info about the V deal, and other miscellaneous info. 'Don't screw this up, or you're finito, Finitos.'  
  
Max looked up from the letter, and noticed a dartboard. It had a picture of Gognitti on it. Max grinned, and picked up a dart from the desk. He threw it at the photo, just as he heard a thumb on the door.  
  
'Everythin' all right in there?' A voice came from the other side, slightly muffled. Max lay down the letter, and moved away from the desk.  
  
'We gotta go in now!!' came another voice. Max moved into the alcove, and held up close to the wall.  
  
'We're comin' in!!' shouted the first voice. Max reached into his jacket for his Berettas.  
  
The door burst open, and the two mobsters ran in. Max sighed, and dived out into battle again. 


	2. Resturant

This one's based on the start of the Resturant level.  
  
From the outside, Angelo Punchinello's resturant looked closed. Behind the dark windows, all was still except for the occasional light from a passing car, it's driver desperate to escape from the endless snowstorm coming down on New York City.  
  
As mentioned, to a passerby the resturant looked closed, although there would be no passers-by tonight (except for those guys in the car). Max Payne, however, was not a passer-by. Max Payne was a man with nothing to lose, and a man with an invitation.  
  
Max quietly closed the doors of Punchinello's resturant behind him. The warmth of the was a welcome change from the freezing streets of New York. He quickly blew into one of his hands, the other tightening around the Beretta it held.  
  
The resturant appeared empty. Shouting would be stupid. If Punchinello was here, he would be waiting for him at the entrance, not hiding. This was very possibly a set-up.  
  
Max took a few careful steps forward. His cold nose was gradually getting used to the warmth, and he became aware of a strong smell all around him. It took him a few moments more to realise what it was.  
  
Gasoline.  
  
"Bastar - "  
  
The resturant exploded into flames, and a dancing orange immediately lit up the room. The fire seemed to have started everywhere at once - the cloth on every table was drenched. The door was completely ablaze.  
  
Max, who had been tossed off his feet by the small explosion which had started the fire, rolled away the flames lapping at his leather jacket, and stood up. The only way out looked to be the hallway at the right of the bar, which presumably lead off to other seating areas of the resturant. Max tumbled over the waist-height partition which split the room down the middle, and ran.  
  
Max bolted down the corridor. He passed a door which he presumed was a storeroom, and therefore no means of escape. He was a few metres from the corner at the end of the corridor, when the wall in front of him and the floor around it burst into flames.  
  
He yelped, the heels of his shoes skidding on the smooth floor. He managed to turn round and run back down, as the fire behind him quickly spread along to engulf the corridor behind him.  
  
Abrubtly Max noticed that the back of his jacket was on fire. He had no time to stop. The drop he decided to substitute for a dive, and he rolled onto his back, putting out the flames.  
  
His legs, above him as he rolled over, crashed into the side of the bar, feet in the air, back on the ground. Max quickly scrabbled off to the side as the flames reached the bar and caused the alcohol there to explode violently. He stumbled through a set of doors off to the back of the bar.  
  
Max fell against the wall, and allowed himself a moment to breathe. The slight dampness of the floor and the stench of petrol told him the fire would spread to here in moments. He sighed. The whole resturant was probably soaking in gas, and rigged with fire bombs or something.  
  
Max made his way off to the door at the other side of the storeroom, as another fire started in the corner the room.  
  
After running, jumping, diving, rolling, and falling his way through another storeroom, more seating areas, a boiler room, and miscellanious corridors, Max was starting to get tired. He staggered through yet another doorway, flames lapping at his sides.  
  
This room was dark, quiet, and completely flame-free. Max took a few cautious steps forward. 


End file.
